


Middle of a Dry Spell

by dedougal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-05
Updated: 2011-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:17:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedougal/pseuds/dedougal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a reaction to Robo!Sam, from Dean's POV and, uh, semi-wincest. And skeevy. Sam, Dean and a case in a bondage club.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Middle of a Dry Spell

Dean didn’t really understand why they had to come here of all places to follow the lead. He got it, but he didn’t quite get why it had to be now and here and, you know, now. They should have come during the day – he was sure someone would have been about. But, no. Sam was dead set against doing anything other than replicated the circumstances that those people had disappeared under and that meant being here and it being at night and Dean being… dressed right.

Who knew that all that leather chafed? In the slightly more adventurous porn he watched, sometimes, the girls seemed to like the leather holding them in, the collars around their neck. Instead, here he was in a pair of trousers that were chafing sensitive parts of his anatomy. And don’t get him started on the way the collar around his neck made him feel a little too like that skinwalker dude they’d come across a few weeks back.

Sam didn’t have a freaking collar around his neck. All he’d done was borrow one of Dean’s black t-shirts and put a little eye liner around his eyes. Dean was the one with the get up. He knew that trying to find anything to actually fit his ginormous freak of a brother was difficult, but he still didn’t see why he had to be the one with the stupid collar. It didn’t help that Sam always seemed to have a hand on him – on the small of his back, on the back of his neck. Once on his ass, but he’d moved it after Dean had jerked away.

There had been a warning glare, a blank emotionless stare that had Dean slotting himself back into place by Sam’s side. Not that Dean was scared and needed his brother beside him. It was more that Sam seemed to know what was what and while there were women here (some of them way too intense for Dean to even think about leering over) it seemed to be mostly men. Some of who were unattached. And were looking at Dean like he was a piece of meat. A fine steak, Dean reassured himself, but meat, none the less.

Sam’s hand was fumbling at his back, pulling up the white t-shirt Dean was wearing. “Take this off.”

“Really, Sam. Do you think that is a good idea?” Dean knew his voice was lacking some of its usual calm. “Isn’t Drooly McBeardy over there getting a good enough look? And who am I kidding - I’m too old for this.”

“It wasn’t a request.” Sam’s voice has no hesitation. Sam definitely wasn’t losing his calm. Although his voice had this edge that Dean couldn’t quite identify. Somewhere between a growl and a groan, a hint of gravel. Ah shit. That was the voice Sam used when his dreams got a little naughty. Dean glanced down. Little Sammy was obviously enjoying the leather and leash show.

Dean looked at the floor. Not that he could see much of it beyond the odd flash from the revolving pulsing lights of the dancefloor. Then he deliberately looked Sam in the eyes, licked his lips and tugged the white material up and over his head. He didn’t want to think what it would do to his hair. Dean stood there, bare chested, holding the t-shirt in his hands, not knowing what to do with it. Sam leaned forward to snatch it from him before tucking it in his back pocket.

“Go dance,” Sam ordered.

Dean, again, balked at Sam’s order. “The fuck?”

Sam pulled him tight to his side, hands huge, spanning over his ribs. Then Sam bent to whisper in his ear. “The people who disappeared? Life and soul of the slutty party. And I don’t dance well. And we all know you’re the slutty one here.”

Dean swore again, before batting Sam’s hands away and stalking into the mass of sweaty people who all had too much skin showing and not in a good way. It made Dean feel more comfortable, actually. Those burgers weren’t really helping the start of his middle aged spread, but at least he was more fit than a lot of the people in here. It took him a little while to get moving, and he wasn’t entirely sure where to keep his eyes, but when he noticed Sam watching him, it all became a bit easier.

His fucking brother had been winding him up all day. Well, he was going to tease right back.

The way to start, Dean decided, was to let his hands wander a little on his exposed skin. Sure, it felt fucking weird to start with, but the reaction he got from a couple of not entirely unattractive guys made him feel a whole lot better. Then there was the grinding. He ended up between a man and a woman, the woman rubbing her barely contained tits over his chest while the man let his interested cock ride the crease of Dean’s ass. Dean, himself, found his own cock getting a little interested after all. It had been a while since he’d left Lisa, a while since he’d gone back to it being him and his one true companion, his right hand.

So Dean was not entirely amused when Sam strode onto the dancefloor, wrapped one enormous paw around his arm and pulled him towards the back of the club. He tried to struggle but Sam just held on tighter, pulling him nearly off his feet. They went through a black painted door into a narrow dark hallway and Sam let the door close behind them. Half the noise from the club shut off, but Dean could still feel the pulse of the bass through the floor, through his bones.

“What? Can’t you ask like a normal person? Are you turning Neanderthal or something? Ugh, Caveman!” Dean pushed irritably at Sam until he dropped his hand.

Sam didn’t smirk down at him. He just looked at Dean like he was some amusing child. “I spoke to the bartender. The people who disappeared? All using the same room through here.”

“Through…?” Dean looked down the corridor. Now his eyesight had adjusted, he could see the shapes of recessed doors, some with signs on the door, all with peepholes. He shuffled to the nearest one and cursed his curiosity when he looked through. “Oh. Ouch. Ah.”

“Indeed,” Sam’s boredly amused tone washed over him. “We want the third one along on the right.”

Dean tried to regain a bit of dignity by marching down the corridor. “I don’t know what you’re hoping to find here, dude.”

“A clue? Perhaps?” Sam shoved the door open and pushed Dean through with a hand firmly placed too close to Dean’s ass for his complete comfort. Sam’s hand was burning hot at the base of his spine and Dean found himself wondering what might happen now if Sam’s hand was to drop even further down. But, of course, the room was not empty.

There was a very naked man strapped down to a bench in the middle of the floor. Leather cuffs kept his legs tight against the side, his arms up beside his head. A band across his neck forced him to only look forward. And there was a hard, red ball in his mouth, forcing the man to drool around it. Dean was moving before he was aware he was, determined to let the man out of his restraints. But then one of Sam’s hands landed heavily on his shoulder and tugged him back, forcing him to stop.

“This is ideal,” hissed the voice in his ear. Dean tried not to think about Sam and snakes and serpents. “We can use him as bait.”

“We do not use people as bait. Well, not most of the time. And normally we use ourselves in that case.” Dean kept his protest quiet but fervent. The guy knew someone had come in but was powerless to look behind him.

“Do you want to be tied down to the bench, Dean?” Sam asked, almost fucking curiously. Dean could feel his frustration at Sam’s inability to just get it, to understand that innocent people were not pawns to be used to capture supernatural monsters. Not tools to get clues. And there was no way in hell that he, Dean Winchester, was going to be tied to no bench. Especially not when Sam leaned closer and whispered, “Do you want to take the punishment? Be paddled and whipped and fucked like he’s begging to be.”

Dean forced himself to look at the guy again. He closed his eyes for a moment then ducked down to look at his junk. Okay. The guy was interested. Or at least the ring around the base of his cock was keeping him interested. He turned to say something to Sam but, naturally, this version of his brother was already three steps ahead of him.

“Tell me your safeword,” Sam ordered leaned forward to unfasten the gag.

“Prius. And a double tap.” There was no hesitation as the dude showed Sam what the nonverbal signal meant. He’d spoken the minute his mouth was free and Sam corked him back up again, hands working the strap confidently without any further questions.

Dean was poised on the balls of his feet. He knew that this situation was setting off his flight or fight reflex. He should stop Sam, unstrap that guy and get them the hell out of here. But he hated to concede that Sam had a point, after all. The guy was willing, judging by the way he was readying himself for whatever Sam was going to deal out. And there was still the unsolved disappearances. Dean had to be ready to handle whatever showed up.

Son of a bitch.

He was going to have to stay here and watch everything. At least that was taking care of the remains of the erection he’d been sporting. Sam stalked back to him and gave him back his t-shirt and the gun that had been hidden under his own shirt. “I should make you kneel, but you should probably just sit over there.” A padded bench ran along one side of the room. Dean opened his mouth to argue but realised that there was nothing he could say to change Sam’s mind.

Dean looked at the bench carefully before spreading the t-shirt flat on the surface. He hadn’t seen any stains but it was better to be safe. He placed the gun at his side and watched Sam. A Sam who had peeled out of his own shirt and pulled black leather gloves on. Dean took a minute to wonder why he’d done that when the words Sam was speaking sunk into his brain.

“Anything I use on your ass, goes in your ass afterwards. You get that?” Sam was saying. Dean felt a jolt. That… That was not the bargain. Not the deal. That was beyond the line. Dean started to get up, to protest, anything but Sam held up his hand. The guy wasn’t tapping on the table. He wasn’t shaking his head. Instead he angled his hips up to give Sam a more perfect target. Sick freak.

Sam’s hand, splayed wide, leather clad, slapped down on the offered ass. Dean winced at the crack that echoed around the room. The man let out a cry that not even the gag could muffle, but he didn’t try to get away, to move. Instead he readied himself for the next blow.

Dean watched, half horrified, half fascinated, as the guy’s ass started to glow red. Sam was merciless, working his hand in a controlled, systematic way until not a single bit of flesh on the guy’s ass and upper thighs was the same colour it had been when he had started. Dean had to admire the work ethic, he supposed.

Then Sam let his left hand rub over the reddened skin while he reached over to the table and grabbed a small bottle. He let the liquid inside dribble over the guy’s asscrack before tossing it back onto the table and bringing the fingers of his right hand down to trace the path the liquid had left. The guy couldn’t widen his legs any, though Dean saw him try, the restraints chinking softly against the bench he was splayed over. The muffled noise he made this time was somewhere closer to a moan than the sharp cries from before. But it still held an edge of pain. Dean dragged his unwilling eyes back to see that Sam was pumping two fingers in and out of the guy’s hole, twisting and pulling. Dean squirmed on the bench, his cock twitching at the sight.

Then he realised what he was doing and peered around the room, looking for any flickers that might indicate ghost or supernatural or anything other than Sam just completely wrecking the guy strapped to the bench. Dean’s attention shot back when Sam pulled out his fingers and grabbed a cane from the table beside him. He slammed it onto the padded leather beside the guy’s face and left it there for a moment before bringing it up again and cracking it across the guy’s ass. He jumped more than he had at Sam’s hand, jerking as much as he could in his restraints. Dean only understood what Sam had meant by “in you” when he seemed happy with the crisscross pattern on the guy’s naked ass and reversed the cane to work the handle into his hole.

Dean stopped pretending that he wasn’t finding this wrong and dirty and, fuck it, all kinds of hot. It wasn’t like real life porn. It was harder and harsher than anything he’d ever watched but to see Sam totally in control like that was something his dick was more than interested in. And that was the second realisation he didn’t want to be having. He was being turned on by his brother.

Sam had finished tormenting the guy with the cane and had moved on to using a flogger, his back muscles working now, slick with sweat in the heat of the room. He was shining and glorious, face impassive and blank. This wasn’t pleasure for him; it was just part of the job. And that, that, was part of what made it so fucking wrong.

Dean stopped feeling so overheated and shivered. At first he thought it was the cold shower of disgust he deserved at getting hot over his brother (although not really his brother, right?) and didn’t pay attention. Then he remembered why they were here and tightened his hand on the gun, looking around the room. There was a definite flicker over by the far wall. Dean shot to his feet and looked to see that Sam had noticed it too.

The ghost was a man, looked in his early twenties – young, a little twinky – and was in the uniform of the place, all naked chest and leather pants. His chest was criss-crossed with a series of bleeding lacerations.

The guy on the bench had noticed the apparition and was beating his hands on the bench, desperate to get away now. Sam tossed the flogger on the table and grabbed a wicked looking hook. The pace of the guy’s pounding took on a new frenzy as Sam held it up and looked at it.

Dean shook his head, lifted the gun, and pumped a round of salt into the ghost who vanished. Sam unbuckled the guy while Dean kept his eyes open for the return of the ghost. It seemed to have had enough for now. This felt like a salt-and-burn job. They’d need to find the bones, though, and he wondered if it would be unethical to let sleepless Sam do all the work while he took a nap or a little bit of time to himself. Finally the man was back on his feet, pulling his clothes out from under the bench and shrugging into them.

“Do you want some kind of aftercare?” Sam asked, voice sounding anything but caring.

The man looked between them. “I’ve met all kinds of freaks in here, but you pair are something else.” He pushed past Dean and headed back into the corridor.

“Did you get a good enough look?” Dean asked, as Sam reordered the sex toys on the table beside him. “At the ghost?”

Sam’s shoulders shook and Dean realised that it was with silent laughter. “Why? You volunteering for a place on the bench next?”

Dean shuddered. “I think I’ve spent my time on the bench, thanks very much.” His breathing was becoming a little ragged at the thought – either in fear, at the memory or perhaps because the idea didn’t seem quite as awful as it seemed even five minutes ago.

Sam looked at him. “I could lie over it.” His voice was dispassionate, curious. “I could let you strap me in and let you take out all your rage on my body and not fight back.” Sam sounded calm and measured, something Dean definitely wasn’t.

“Let’s just get out of here, gank this ghost and never speak about this again.” Dean grabbed his t-shirt off the bench and struggled back into it, cursing the tightness. Sam was still watching him as he scowled back. “C’mon, Sam.”

“I can tell that you liked it, you know, the being bent over, someone else being in charge.” Sam sounded more amused than anything now. “You would always let girls ride you in the back seat of the car.”

“And you were a nasty little perv as a teenager,” Dean shot back, hiding the gun in his waistband and realising that the t-shirt just clung to it rather than covered it. He held the gun out to Sam. “Hide this.”

It was only later when they’d got back to the motel room and Sam had gone for a shower that Dean let himself lie back on the bed and think about what Sam had been trying to say. It must have been the leather pants, he thought, stripping them off and kicking them to lie beside the garbage can. He was never wearing that shit again. He pulled off the too tight t-shirt and slung it there too. His life was fucked up enough without asking for that kind of trouble.

Sam was in the doorway, water drops trailing down his chest, making every muscles in his chest, his stomach, gleam. The towel around his waist seemed ridiculously small. “You okay?”

Sam wasn’t asking because he was concerned about Dean. They’d gone beyond pretending that. He was asking because he wanted an efficient hunting partner. Dean scowled and pulled out the whiskey from his duffle.

“I’ll be fine, Sam.” He was glad his back was turned, because his boxers were tented with the sudden force of his arousal. “Just go finish your shower.”

The door closed behind him.


End file.
